Life, with a twist of Death (shaken and stirred)
by Frisk15
Summary: Life should always be about choices. But there are some choices nobody should ever be forced to make. And Stiles? Yeah, he's the lucky bastard who gets to choose and literally forced to make a Do & Die decision. / Inspired by 'Gunplay Is Not Really Our Kink' by theroguesgambit (AO3). / Terror and torture with a dash of humor thrown in; (pre) Sterek. (not a death fic!)
1. Don't make me choose, please

Summary: Stiles finds himself - and Derek - in an impossible situation.

* * *

A choice.

That's what they called it. He got offered a choice. Yet during all the hours, weeks - heck, _months!_ \- he'd spent researching the Internet, trawling through sites, reading article after article, he'd never come across this particular description of the word. Because this wasn't a choice.

This was _murder!_


	2. I don't have anything to offer you

Summary: What does it take to break a werewolf? Or a human, for that matter?

* * *

They offered it as casually as if they were offering him a drink.

As casually as they took him and Derek off the street and threw them into a dark van, Derek slumped into an unresponsive heap, unconscious from whatever type of wolfsbane they'd put on the dart they shot him with. It had been quick and effective, not allowing the werewolf even a second to respond to the danger.

Stiles they just trussed up like a pig headed to its slaughter before dumping him carelessly on the cold steel floor of the vehicle, not bothering with anything else as they deemed him pretty harmless. He was only human after all.

The fact that they didn't bother blindfolding him either told him the chance of walking out of this alive was pretty slim. Zero, actually. That, plus the fact they hadn't offered food or water either during the time - what, three, four days? longer? - they'd now spent in the cold basement of whatever building they were being held in.

There had been torture. Just some punching and finger breaking in his case, cracking a rib or two, maybe three. Obviously a lot more judging by what Derek looked like every time they'd return him. The last time there'd been scorch marks on his back, slowly, very slowly disappearing around sluggishly bleeding wounds.

Electricity and more wolfsbane, no doubt.

He'd done his best to comfort the werewolf, tried his best without being able to take away his very apparent pain, without being able to offer him water or any other form of sustenance. Just held him and rocked him while his body shook with tremors, spasmed violently in the aftermath of yet another interrogation while his flesh worked hard to knit itself together again.

It didn't take long to figure out they were just using him. Using him as an incentive to get Derek to answer whatever questions they were asking him. He came to that conclusion as they worked him over silently, just making him scream and scream and then scream some more, all the while keeping the door to the hallway wide open.

They made sure Derek could hear him.

Derek, who would be unconscious most of the time, drugged up to prevent him from wreaking havoc, but always awake when they came for Stiles. Always aware of his inability to keep him safe from whatever horrors they were going to commit next. Always staring with wide, crazed eyes while they dragged Stiles out of the basement, gun against his head, threatening to shoot him if Derek so much as twitched, telling him to keep his wolf under control.

All Derek could do was scream his rage.


	3. We're not just wasting time

Summary: Stiles think's it's all just a waste of time. Until somebody begs to differ.

* * *

The last time they took him out of the basement, they didn't hurt him. They stood around, watching him, evaluating him. He got nervous under the scrutiny, fidgeting with the restraints they'd put on him. A quick slap to the face stopped that.

"Well, looks like the two of you outlived your use."

Stiles looked at the man, raising an eyebrow, trying to impart his disdain despite the cold and hunger induced shivers which now almost continuously wracked his skinny frame.

"What, punching and breaking the scrawny human has lost its appeal?"

The sarcasm was rewarded with another slap to the face. It hurt, but the coppery taste of blood due to a split lip was infinitely better than the sharp, cold sensation of yet another bone being broken. The man who slapped him stepped back, a calculating look on his face, then uttered a short, humorless grunt.

"No, that never loses its charm. Nor does torturing that freak you're with."

A low growl escaped Stiles' lips, momentarily drawing a look of surprise from the men standing in front of him, followed by disgust.

"You spent too much time with those monsters, kid. Even if we had gotten what we wanted, we'd still not let you go." The man spat on the ground. "You've been tainted."

The rage at those words - because the only monsters he knew were the men standing in this room - was quickly suppressed by something which felt like elation. They hadn't gotten what they were after. Derek hadn't told them anything. Derek hadn't broken down.

He smirked at the realization.

"Guess you've been wasting your time then."

The moment the words were out he felt something change in the room's atmosphere. Felt a charged emotion coming from the men that told him things were to become worse, _much_ worse than they'd been already.

* * *

He wasn't wrong.


	4. What was behind door number one again?

Summary: There's just no way to make a choice like this. Is there?

* * *

Stiles sat speechless.

 _Stunned_.

Turning the words he'd just heard over and over in his mind, trying to make sense of them.

He couldn't.

It took him several efforts before he gathered enough spit in his parched mouth to make his tongue move, to force words out of his throat.

"Why ... why are you doing this?"

The man looked at him with something which almost seemed like pity on his face. Only, Stiles knew that wasn't possible. Pity was an emotion these men were incapable of. Pity had nothing to do with the words he'd just heard.

"Why?" The man cocked his head, giving Stiles another long, scrutinizing look before he continued. "Simple, kid. Because we can. And because this is the only way this is gonna end. With you and that monster dead."

Stiles flinched, trying to back away as far as possible when the man suddenly hunched over and placed both hands on the chair in which the boy had been strapped down.

"The only choice you're getting is the manner in which the mutt dies."

Shaking his head, trying to wet his lips, Stiles tried to convey his inability to understand. The man picked up on it.

"Call it ... a courtesy. To you, because you're human." He scoffed. "Well, barely human, seeing how you've been running with these creatures." The man stepped back. "We'll give you an hour to think it over."

Stiles watched in silence as the men stepped through the door out into the hallway, then slumped down in the chair. An hour. An hour in which he had to make a decision over Derek's life. No, that wasn't right.

Over Derek's _death_.


	5. Hurry, we're on the clock here!

Summary: It's not the end result that's up for debate; it's the manner and the method. But killing someone with kindness still means they end up dead. Fortunately Stiles won't have to live with his decision. Because, yeah, he'll be dead as well.

* * *

The first thirty minutes passed leaving Stiles drenched in sweat, wrists bloody and raw from his increasingly desperate efforts to wrench himself out of the restraints. It was no use. The hunters - and Stiles was absolutely sure that's what they were dealing with - had been too well educated in all forms of torture and in how to keep their victims secured while they were having 'fun'.

No werewolf, let alone a scrawny human boy, could escape them.

Stiles felt a panic attack hovering at the edges of his awareness, his chest constricted with terror, his heart beating an irregular staccato against his painful ribs. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. This wasn't how _Derek_ was supposed to meet his end.

He went over every scenario, over every possibility, over every option.

There weren't any.

* * *

So he started thinking about the choice he'd been given.

 _"The mutt either dies at our hands, or yours."_

That's what the man had said, crazy eyes almost gleaming with what seemed to be humor. What seemed to be _glee!_ He'd been tapping the gun at his hip while holding Stiles' eyes captive.

"Trust me when I say that a bullet between the eyes - oh, and it's a wolfsbane bullet, so you can bet it will be almost instantaneous - will be the quicker, the kinder option. Because if you go for door #1, if you decide that you don't want to dirty your hands and leave ending that dog to us, it's going to be a long, drawn-out death. A very _painful_ death. For you _both!_ "

The full horror of the painted scenario had made him cringe.

How the hell was he expected to make a decision like that? Why did they think he would even be _able_ to make a choice like that?! This wasn't a win-win scenario, or even a win-lose one. No either-or, no he lives-I die, or I live-he dies. Every scenario, every choice he'd make would still have the same outcome; would still result with both Derek and him ending up dead.

It was simply about choosing how they'd get there.

* * *

A quick look at the clock told him he had less than fifteen minutes to make up his mind. But how could he? How could he make a decision in the manner of Derek's death?

He knew that, no matter what he decided, they'd both end up dead anyway. Like the man said: they'd outlived their usefulness. He had no doubt in his mind the hunters were skilled in making their bodies disappear, and for a moment he could almost envision his father's grief-stricken face, could almost sense his anguish.

Tears started coursing down his face at the realization he'd never get to hug his father again, never get to irritate him again with his never-ceasing efforts of supervising his diet. Never get to hear his voice again, see his face again.

Another look at the clock.

Five minutes.

And just like that, he decided.

Knew that, despite there being no other option than their deaths, he could at least influence the way in which one of them would go. Could at least lessen the pain and the terror and reduce it to something almost acceptable.

A strange feeling of calm came over him, and when the door opened after the hour had passed, he looked up, determination in his eyes.

"I'll do it."


	6. Out of time

Summary: An hour has passed, and a choice has been made. And who knew guns were that loud?

* * *

Stiles' determination nearly shattered when they dragged Derek into the room.

By now the werewolf's clothes were almost completely shredded, barely more than scraps of bloodied cloth sticking to his body. His dark hair hung lank and sweaty over his forehead, and his skin was an unhealthy pallor. There was blood oozing from several still unhealed wounds.

And he was unconscious.

It felt like an icy hand constricted Stiles' heart. Of course the hunters had made sure the werewolf would not be able to attack them. Of _course_ he'd be rendered helpless so he couldn't resist what was going to happen to him.

Couldn't resist what _Stiles_ would do to him.

There would be no 'goodbyes', no softly spoken words, no last shared looks. No opportunity to apologize, to ask for forgiveness, or be given absolution.

No last kiss.

* * *

Stiles watched in silence as one of the men approached him, then proceeded to undo the restraints around his wrists and ankles. After being yanked out of the chair he almost lost his balance, legs gone numb from being forced into the same position for so long.

A strong hand wrapped around his upper arm, steadying him before he hit the floor.

"Don't even think of trying anything funny, kid."

He turned to look at the man uttering the threat, then slowly shook his head. No, he wouldn't try anything. There was no use in trying anything anymore; no use in resisting.

This was it.

* * *

The men holding Derek dragged him to the center of the room, then released him. The werewolf didn't utter a sound as he was dumped unceremoniously on the hard floor, crumbling into a heap.

The sight tore through Stiles' heart.

All the times they had fought and battled, and walked away the winner. All the times they had managed to best whatever unspeakable evil had come slouching into their town. All the times they had howled and screamed out their victory.

All the times they had exchanged hugs, and looks. And lately, tentative kisses.

All those times had been for nought.

In the end, they'd lost.

* * *

A rough shove against his back sent him tumbling towards what he'd come to see as the leader of the hunters. The man looked at him, then snapped open his holster and took out his gun, slapping it into Stiles' hand.

He looked down at the piece of cold, deadly metal. It felt strange and alien, and a wave of revulsion coursed through his body. This was what he was supposed to use. This was what he was going to kill Derek with.

This was _so wrong!_

Then again, he knew with absolute certainty that he could never allow the other option, could never allow the hunters to kill Derek. The werewolf had already experienced so much pain in his life, the least Stiles could do for him was try and make his death as painless as possible.

He shuddered.

Forcing himself to turn away from the man, he looked at the unmoving body on the floor, took a few halting steps forward.

"Go on, kid. Get this over with. We haven't got all day."

For a moment, the gruff and uncaring voice caused anger to flare up. They wanted him to hurry up. Wanted him to move on and put this _animal_ out of its misery so they could finish up and leave; go back to their homes, to their wives, to their kids.

He turned around, fist clenched around the weapon.

"What happens if I don't ... if I refuse?"

The leader shrugged.

"Like I said. We'll string the mutt up and experiment some more, see how much his body can take before it gives out." The man looked pensive for a moment. "There's still a lot to be learned about this breed's resilience to pain, to torture." He shrugged again. "Doesn't really matter either way, as far as I'm concerned."

Stiles barely had the chance to breathe a retort before the man jumped forward and wrapped a hand around his throat, squeezing his airway shut.

"But I can promise you that it will be the _both_ of you hanging from those chains. And I know for a fact that a human body can't take nearly as much pain as one of those dogs!"

Stars appeared at the edge of Stiles' vision, the snarling words of the man sounding as if they started coming through a thick fog. He desperately clawed at the hand around his throat, anxious to draw in air.

The next moment he was released.

"I can also promise you that you'll both go out painlessly if you use the gun. Up to you."

The man stepped back, eyes locked on Stiles' as the boy gulped in much needed air, suddenly terrified again. He couldn't do this! He couldn't just _shoot_ Derek, just end his life like the dog these man viewed him to be.

But what other option was there?

He angrily wiped away the tears and snot that had started to accumulate, steadying the gun in his hand. He had this. He did. He could _do_ this. He _had_ to do this.

For Derek.

Turning around, he took a few steps towards the werewolf, then sunk down to his knees. Using his left hand, he gently pushed away the strands of dark hair falling over the face, then stroked the still cheek. He wished he had the chance to see those beautiful eyes again, to be able to share one last look.

But then, maybe it was better this way.

Steeling his resolve, he raised his right hand, placing the muzzle directly against Derek's forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so, _so_ sorry, Derek. But I'm doing this because I lo ... because I love you."

He didn't heed the disgusted snorts behind him, blanking his mind from everything but this one thing he had to do.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

He gripped the gun with both hands, steadying it, holding it still against its unmoving target, and took a deep, trembling breath.

The next moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, then pulled the trigger.

The gun's report was deafening.


	7. That old familiar place

Summary: Stiles wakes up and everything looks really familiar. Now if he could only remember how he got here.

* * *

There's beeping sounds, penetrating the haze in his head like annoying bugs; making him frown.

"Stiles?"

The anxious tone in the voice - his father's voice, he realizes - prompts him to try and turn his head in its direction, to try and turn over.

"Ow! Shi..."

Two hands gently hold him down by the shoulders, forcing him to stay still.

"Don't move, son. You've got one hell of a concussion, on top of everything else."

Concussion. Right. Maybe that's why he doesn't remember anything. Like, how come he ended up in hospital. _Again!_ Sighing, he relaxes back against the cushion, letting his body go limp. Apparently they've been giving him the good drugs, if the ease with which he goes boneless is any indication. He manages to open one, then the other eye and peeks at his father from between his lashes. Hospital lights, always so bright!

"Hey Dad."

"Hey kid."

The sheriff moves to sit on the edge of the bed, so Stiles won't have to move his head to look at him. The bed dips slightly, causing a wave of pain as Stiles' body is slightly tilted off center. He hisses.

"Shit, sorry. I'll..."

Stiles utters a grunt.

"No, stay. It's, it's OK. It passed already."

His father not being a werewolf means he doesn't hear the slight stutter of Stiles' heart which accompanies the lie. The pain is still there, just beneath the surface of sedation resulting from the drugs. It's in his head, and chest, and hands, but really mostly in his head. But why?

"So, me. Hospital. Again, I might add." He licks his lips, watches a frown appear on his father's face. "Sorry about that, by the way. But I, ehm, I don't ..."

He feebly waves a hand and sees an undefinable emotion cross over his father's face. It's gone too quickly for Stiles to either really catch or decipher it. His head hurts too much anyway to try and think things out; his dad will just have to explain things.

"The doctor said memory loss was a possibility, seeing the extend of your head trauma." The sheriff smiles gently. "You are very lucky, you know? Not many people walk away from being sho... from receiving a bullet to the head."

What?

"What?"

His father places a large, comforting hand on one of Stiles' knees.

"You were shot, Stiles."

He points to his own head, sweeping a finger from his temple to behind his ear.

"The bullet basically grazed you, but it still took out a good chunk. The impact also resulted in a concussion."

For a moment, his father's eyes darken with emotion - Stiles thinks it may be anger - and his lips draw together to form a thin line. The sheriff seems lost in thought for a moment, then shakes his head as if to clear his mind before continuing.

"We, ehm, we got a call about shots fired in a warehouse. When we got there, we found you. Unconscious. Bleeding."

Stiles just stares at his father. Shot? In a warehouse? But...

"Why was I in a warehouse, Dad? Was I alone? Was Scott there? How..."

The sheriff puts up a hand, stopping his increasingly agitated son.

"I don't know, Stiles. All I know is that we found you before ... well, before it was too late."

It doesn't make sense. _None_ of it makes sense. The problem is, Stiles not being able to remember means he can't even _try_ to make sense of it all, because he doesn't have any details. And neither does his father, it seems.

What the hell is going on?!


	8. Dude, where's Derek!

Summary: Apparently head-butting bullets equals amnesia and migraines. Stiles just can't figure out what that's got to do with disappearing werewolves.

* * *

Stiles really hates being in the hospital.

It's not a mere dislike, it's not something which comes close to the general feeling of discomfort resulting from being surrounded by strange people and being stuck somewhere that's not home.

No, he really, really _hates_ being here!

Personally he thinks it has a lot to do with the doctor, the one who greets him with "Hi, sweetie" - and Stiles has made the resolution to drag his hurting carcass out of bed and just run or stumble or whatever the next time she does that - and talks to him like he's a small child and treats him like being brained by a bullet is guaranteed to reduce a person to a mindless, blubbering idiot.

So, yeah, OK, a lot of bullet induced head traumas actually _do_ result in diminished mental capacities, and that's a sad fact. Stiles has got Google Fu down to an art - hell, he's probably got a black belt with all kinds of assorted colored tags on it by now - and has researched the shit out of all kinds of injuries caused by every imaginable type of weapon.

Because, well, werewolves attract injuries like flies; or more correctly, werewolves are trouble magnets which results in their _human friends_ to attract injuries like flies; or whatever. So he _knows_ what bullets can do, and he's pretty convinced his knowledge is more extensive than that of his doctor.

I mean, does she know about wolfsbane bullets? Hah! No, but Stiles sure does.

Anyway, only yesterday Doctor McSweetie had deemed him 'awake' enough to explain to him the healing process of his head wound - and why the fuck she thought Stiles was interested in such things as 'granulated tissue' and 'wound drainage' while he couldn't even look that shit up remains a mystery to him - and when she caught his frustrated look - because, hello: _laptop_ and _busted fingers!_ \- she immediately started using such simplified terms that he'd expected her to get out a sketchbook and crayons and start drawing him pictures next.

And Stiles, well, Stiles is many things but _not_ an idiot, thank you very much!

Well, maybe he is, but then he is just a very _frustrated_ idiot.

Anyway, fortunately for her, his father apparently recognized his son's increasing distaste and agitation and then willingness to commit a crime, and together with Scott's mom had managed to gently usher the doctor out of the room before he had to arrest his own son for attempted murder.

So yeah, he hates the hospital.

* * *

Stiles hates his memory loss even more.

There's nothing, absolutely _nothing_ for him to try and piece together. No memory flashes, no scent induced scenes, no auditory bits that cause him to remember anything about spending his time in a warehouse.

Zilch. Nada.

"I'm sure it'll come back to you, dude," Scott had said a few days before, trying to calm him down when he'd become agitated again. "Mom says there's a good chance you'll remember it. Or, you know, at least part of it."

Grumbling, Stiles had let Scott push him back onto the bed again while Allison went and got him some water so he could take the anti-migraine drug they'd put him because yay! apparently migraines were a side effect of having head-butted a bullet. His question of whether these were temporary or permanently could not be answered by Dr. McSweetie, who managed to catch herself just in time before uttering the despicable endearment again.

The sheriff obviously talked to her.

* * *

"So, dude ... where the hell is Derek?"

They're the first words out of Stiles' mouth when Scott comes to visit again, and his friend's reaction is, well ... not quite what Stiles expects to be honest.

Scott's face acquires a deathly pallor - like, white as a fucking _sheet!_ \- and he starts panting so hard Stiles thinks he's reverted to being human and having a damn asthma attack. And then his eyes start doing this crazy skittering thing like some tilted pinball machine, and just when Stiles is about to press the call button because he's convinced Scott is having some sort of seizure, he realizes his friend is having a panic attack and ... is actually looking for _a way to escape the room!_

What the _hell?!_

 **"Scott!"**

The shout is immediately followed by another headache - and Stiles is _really_ getting sick of those! - but has the desired effect; Scott manages to focus on his friend and stops panting like some spooked horse about to bolt from the stables. And werewolves having panic attacks and then bolting from a hospital room? Like, in an actual _hospital_ filled with weak and sick and defenseless people? Guaranteed to cause mayhem and terror and shit.

Something which definitely should _not_ happen.

So, he's finally gathered both the wits and the courage to ask about the - well, _his_ if he's honest, because that's what it really feels like in his mind - werewolf, because truth be told at first he was just too out of it to even _realize_ that he hadn't seen Derek, and then when he started to become more and more lucid and giving it his everything to try and find out why he was in the hospital in the first place, he hadn't really wondered about McGrumpy's absence.

Yeah, OK, lie right there.

Because of _course_ he has wondered what kept Derek from visiting him. Or why nobody - not even Jerko/Jackson or Isaac, who came to visit as well - has mentioned him, even if it was in passing remarks like _that asshole_ or _the creep in the woods_ or similar endearments.

And it's not like he has been able to ask his dad, because telling the sheriff about the whatever-this-is developing between him and Derek - because coming out to his father by confessing he's dating - dating? occasionally cuddling? engages in spit swapping? - a former murder suspect is just _way_ scarier than telling him Surprise! werewolves actually _do_ exist and are happily cohabiting with us mere humans _right here_ in Beacon Hills, and how about _them_ apples, huh? - and he's pretty certain Buddy-Bro-Scott hasn't picked up any signals yet either, so he's been very reluctant to show any extra curricular interest in the brooding werewolf.

But come on, two _weeks?!_

Weeks in which there hasn't been a sign, a peep or even a growl from said sourwolf? No lurking in hospital bathrooms, no creepy red eyes glaring from behind curtains as the night nurse makes her last round, no growls from beneath the bed.

 _Nothing!_

"So Scott, you're actually really freaking me out here with that The End Is Near response, you know?"

His friend just stares at him, eyes no longer doing that pinball thing but Stiles doesn't like the look in them.

"Scott? _Derek?!"_

The empty look - OK, emptier than normal look, let's be honest here - remains on Scott's face, and Stiles is seriously starting to contemplate the possibility that, hey, maybe he _does_ have some minor form of brain damage, and it occasionally causes his words to come out all garbled and weird and maybe _that's_ what has freaked out his friend. So if he writes it down, maybe...

"I don't know."

Right. So maybe the brain damaged one is Scott here, because all that being thrown around and slammed into objects by crazed werewolves and homicidal lizards surely can't be good for even those fast healing critters. He needs Stiles to clarify, needs to hear s-l-o-w words to understand. Stiles can do that.

"I meant..."

Scott beats him to it.

"I know what you meant, Stiles. And I don't _know_ , alright?"

Stiles feels his mouth opening and closing and then opening again like some fish caught out of the water, being deprived of much needed oxygen.

"Du..."

Scott places a hand on his arm, and Stiles looks down, being eerily reminded of those very few instances when he was present while his father had to deliver painful, _horrifying_ news to a family member of a loved one. This is _not_ good!

His friend's next words confirm that.

"Stiles, Derek's _gone!_ Like, nobody has seen him in two weeks. Actually, nobody has seen him since the time they found you in the warehouse. It's ... it's like he disappeared in thin air."

Okidoki.

So this, Ladies and Gentlemen, is where Stiles exits stage left, because he has _completely_ lost the plot and his script has become useless.

Because this shit? This 'Broody McGrumpy is gone and I just don't know where he is' crap Scott's feeding him?

What the actual _fuck?!_


	9. Clue? What clue!

Summary: Just when Stiles is about to try and extrapolate a conclusion from what he knows, it turns out he knows even less than he thought.

***

Apparently, after having been confined for so many months, my Muse has galloped off with the bit in her mouth and is taking this into a completely different direction which will lead, well ... no clue, actually. It's a bit frightening, to be honest.

* * *

The hospital is in serious need of maintenance.

At least, that's Stiles' opinion, as he stares at the faded evidence of water damage on the ceiling. Then again, hopefully the hospital actually _has_ undergone maintenance, because he doesn't look forward to the prospect of drowning in his bed when the next major autumn rain storm hits Beacon Hills. Judging by the amount of damage, that's a fair possibility.

It would be a very uncool death.

Not that dying by bleeding out resulting from a bullet to the head is very glamorous, but it beats drowning while lying down, because that - again, according to Stiles - is the very epitome of meaningless deaths. Being shredded by a feral werewolf, or stabbed by a homicidal pixie, or even strangled by some strange tentacle creature: all acceptable endings, as far as Stiles is concerned. At least as long as they're the result of trying to protect the people he cares about; trying to protect the pack. Even if he's no part of said pack, he'd almost consider it an honor if he died defending any of them.

Drowning in bed: not so much.

But as long as he's stuck here - and he has yet to be given a definite release date because "amnesia" and "migraines" and "additional neurological exams" - he might as well try and make sense of things. Scott's statement the other day resulted in what only can be described as the Mother of all Panic Attacks. And that's saying something, seeing how often these past years Stiles has been reduced to a quivering mass trying to suck in air.

This was, with the exception of the one he'd experienced the day of his mother's funeral, the worst he's ever experienced.

It had taken three nurses, two doctors, and one syringe of quick acting sedative - and yes, even Stiles' oxygen depleted and horrified mind had caught on to the similarity with a particular Christmas song, thank you very much! - to force his lungs to start functioning, and after he'd surfaced to some semblance of coherency again, Scott's words had been turning over and over and over in his mind nonstop.

"Gone" and "Haven't seen him."

 _"Disappeared."_

* * *

So here's Stiles; injured, suffering from amnesia, suffering from migraines whenever he tries to think. In short - and lets be honest here, Ladies and Gentlemen - being useless! Which still doesn't stop him from trying to piece together what he knows. Because even though all of the above is an undisputed and sad truth, there's one thing which nobody can ever accuse him of. And that's giving up.

Nope. Not happening. Stiles is the master of perseverance, the earl of tenacity, the king of bull-doggedness. Heck, he's the very _emperor_ of pertinacious.

He's _fucking stubborn_ , OK?

Which is why he's gathering every little fact and detail, all the little bits and scraps he knows together, and sticks them on some imaginary whiteboard in his mind. Puts them on there and turns them this way and that way, and starts trying to connect them. And in the middle of the whiteboard he sticks the fact that Derek's gone. Because, let's face it, that's the bit that matters most.

To _him_ , anyways.

For starters, he needs to put everything in its correct time frame. "Two weeks" Scott had said. Two weeks since they'd found him in the abandoned warehouse; two weeks since Derek was seen last. And there's no way he's putting that under the heading 'Coincidence' either, because it means that, it means ... it means nothing. It should mean _something_ , and Stiles just knows that there's a connection, but he just ... he just can't get it. It's like every little fact is just drifting lazily around in his mind, like Autumn leaves on a breeze, and he's unable to grab it and pin it down and make it _stick_.

Stiles is rubbing his head, utterly frustrated by yet another migraine signaling its pending arrival just by simply trying to think, when the door to his room opens.

"Hi Dad."

"Hey kiddo."

The sheriff looks and sounds exhausted, the lines and grooves in his face a testimony to the fact that he's frustrated as well. Frustrated by his son's health, no doubt - even though Stiles is doing much better - and, like Stiles had managed to wheedle out of him, even more frustrated because so far nobody has found a single clue as to what really happened.

Stiles was shot, Stiles was found; case closed.

And then, of course, there's the possibility that the department is looking into Derek's disappearance as well.

"Dad? Have you ... are you guys looking into where Derek might be? You know, now that he's gone?"

His father looks at him quizzically, then draws his brows together and drops his head in his hands. Stiles mentally kicks himself - and vows to physically kick Scott next - because of course his father doesn't want him to worry about this; doesn't want his son to yank another mystery out of the whole pile of mishaps and puzzles and sink his teeth in it while still lying in hospital and trying to regain his health! It stands to reason that's why his father hasn't mentioned Derek yet, and most likely told Scott not to do so either, because Stiles is...

"You mean Derek _Hale_? Who told you Hale is gone, son?"

Ah. Shit.

"Ehm ... it's possible that, maybe, you know, Scott might have mentioned it last time he was here?"

Stiles fingers nervously pluck at the blanket, knowing full well his father will come down on his friend like some avenging angel of the Lord, or any other mythical being on equal footing with a worried and distraught and _upset_ parent, and that does not bode well for Scott's health. He mentally apologizes in advance, scratching the 'kick Scott' item of his To Do list. The poor kid will barely survive the tongue lashing the sheriff undoubtedly will give him.

Scratching his head, the sheriff sighs, then looks Stiles straight in the eyes.

"Well, I don't know where Scott got his information from, but I can tell you nobody is looking for Derek Hale."

Huh?

" _Jesus_ , Dad! Why the hell not?! I mean, yeah, he's ... well, _was_ a murder suspect, and I know not everybody, OK, most people aren't too fond of him. But come on, Dad! He's really not that bad, or actually pretty cool, and just because you don't like him doesn't mean that..."

His father's hand stops the rambling, for which Stiles is secretly grateful, - because that pending migraine? yeah, it's here - and draws his brows together again.

"Stiles, that's not what I meant. It's just that we usually don't go looking for people who aren't gone."

Wait.

"What?"

The sheriff rubs a hand over his eyes, then heaves a sigh.

"Hale's not gone, Stiles."

There's a big, undefinable lump in Stiles throat, and he feels his heart skittering against his ribs. His dad is staring at him, this really strange look on his face - although Stiles doubts it's a match for the dumbfounded look he's certain he now has on _his_ face - and he just keeps staring and, oh _fuck!_ things are just so _confusing_ and what does his father even _mean_ with that?!

"How ... what do you mean, Dad? Of _course_ Derek's gone! Scott _told_ me he's gone!"

And his dad just keeps staring and then shaking his head, and now he's sighing, and Stiles ... Stiles just feels like his mind - what little there's left of it, anyway - has become completely unhinged or something; like somebody took an egg beater and whipped his grey cells into one frothing, non-functioning mass and then flushed it all down the drain.

Then the sheriff takes a breath and just up-ends everything.

"I know he's not gone because I saw him. I saw him just yesterday."


	10. None of this adds up!

SUMMARY: Usually Stiles is pretty good at math. This time, though, things just won't add up.

* * *

The panic attack is close, just hovering at the edge of Stiles' consciousness, waiting to pounce.

It's all ... everything is just a little much.

Getting shot - and not even remembering _who_ shot him, so he can't go and beat that person to a pulp because amnesia, and confusion, and headaches _ow fuck!_ \- and being laid out in hospital and not knowing how, or why; and now his dad telling him Derek _isn't_ gone, while Scott had told him he _was_ gone ...

A person can only take so much.

"Breathe, Stiles."

His father's warm hand, resting against his back, manages to stave off the attack before it has a chance to get a good grip on him. Get a grip; hah! Stiles would _love_ to get a grip, but everything seems to slip through his fingers before he gets the chance to grab it and take a look.

The headache's not helping either.

"You alright?"

Stiles opens his eyes, blinking through the panic and pain induced haze before being able to properly focus on the man sitting on the edge of his bed. He nods. Carefully.

"Think so, yeah."

Sighing, the sheriff reaches for the paper cup with water on the side stand, then hands it to his son. Stiles watches him over the edge of the cup, sees how he runs his hand over his face before looking back up at him. Scraping his throat, Stiles hands back the cup.

"Right. Dad. You need to tell me everything. Like, right from the start, because obviously, _very_ obviously, Scott hasn't got all the facts. Which, yeah, as usual. And I need to know. All the facts, I mean. So, please?"

His dad opens his mouth, and Stiles just knows he's going to refuse, is going to throw up his son's current condition as an excuse to not tell him anything, and Stiles isn't having any of it.

"You need to tell me, Dad, everything from the beginning. Because right now I feel like I'm going crazy and that, well, that's _not_ a good feeling!"

He doesn't mention the extreme anxiety coursing through his veins because, you know, Derek! Fixing a determined look on his father, he mentally tries to will his dad into complying, to share whatever he knows with his son, because said son is just losing it.

Apparently, it works.

* * *

After the thirty minutes or so it takes the sheriff to fill his son in on the details - and that's _all_ the details, because any attempt to leave things out have been skillfully intercepted and thwarted - Stiles is exhausted. He's closed his eyes about ten minutes ago - and somebody should really inform hospital management that those glaring overhead lights are basically an extreme torture method for those patients experiencing migraines - while listening to his father's voice sum up the facts.

"And this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you, son."

Stiles throws his father a bleary look, then snorts.

"I much prefer being exhausted to going crazy, thank you very much. It's been two _weeks_ , Dad! Have you ever seen me in bed for half a month and do nothing?!"

His father frowns.

"Well, yeah. There was the time when you were four and jumped off the slide because you thought you were Batman and broke your leg in three places."

Stiles holds up a hand.

"So not the point! And it seemed like a good idea at the time and at least I managed to establish I was wrong about thinking I could fly, OK?"

They sigh, simultaneously.

"So, let's see if I managed to understand all of this. And just FYI: yes, I'm still hella confused!"

Stiles holds up a finger.

"One: I was going to the store to buy you some veggies in the early afternoon on Saturday - and don't even _think_ about starting to use this as an excuse to back out of healthy eating, mister! - and I never got back. So that's when I got grabbed, apparently."

His father nods, and Stiles holds up a second finger.

"Two: you and everybody else turned Beacon Hills upside-down and inside-out for a week - and seriously? I was gone for a whole _week_?! - but only found me because of the 'shots fired' report at the warehouse."

This gets another nod, and Stiles frowns.

"What I don't get is the fact you said you checked out all the empty buildings, including that particular warehouse. So where was I that previous week?"

His father sighs.

"I don't know, Stiles. If we knew that..."

Stiles nods.

"... we'd solve the whole mystery. Right. So, three." He hold up another finger. "Apparently, the people who captured me were not all that impressed by my amiable personality because, aside from the hole in the head, I had several other injuries that were in different stages of healing."

The previously resigned look on the sheriff's face turns into something volatile.

"You were _tortured_ , Stiles!" The man points at various parts of his son's body while sounding off the injuries. "Four broken fingers. Two cracked ribs. One _broken_ rib. A fractured lower jaw and two loose molars. And the bruises and contusions all over your body were almost too numerous to count. Whoever did this..."

"...was after information, I guess. Well, it does explain the whole having been run over by a bus feeling I've been experiencing."

Stiles frowns while he flexes his nearly healed fingers, then looks at his father.

"Do you ... do you think I told them? You know, whatever they were after?"

The sheriff sighs again, then shakes his head.

"I don't know what to tell you, kid. It's only been two months since I know about this whole 'claws and fangs' thing, and I prefer to stay out of your funny business as much as possible. So excuse me for not being an expert on matters yet."

He stares at his son, and the sight of his only child still covered in fading bruises, one side of his head sporting a white bandage - and looking so utterly dejected that a sharp pain lances through his chest - rekindles the urge to go out and hunt down and _murder_ the sons-of-bitches who dared hurt his kid. All in good time, though.

For now, he needs to stay calm.

For Stiles.

"If it makes you feel any better, I did talk to Chris Argent, and he doesn't think so. I mean, that man is about as forthcoming with information as a seventy year old virgin willing to give up her virtue," and he smiles as Stiles snorts at the obvious mental image his words generate, "but he doesn't think you've given those hunters - and Argent's pretty certain that's what we're dealing with, by the way - what they wanted. Otherwise," and he swallows thickly, "otherwise we wouldn't have found you alive. Argent says these types move at the edge and will do _anything_ to prevent from being caught. Including leaving no witnesses. So no, son, you probably didn't give them anything."

Stiles nods at the words. It makes sense, no matter how harsh it sounds. If he'd talked, had given them the information they wanted, he'd no longer be of any use. He would've been discarded; _killed_. Which, oh boy, does not paint a pretty picture.

"That means they could come after me again, right? _Should_ come after me again, actually, but ... that hasn't happened, right?"

He watches his father shake his head.

"No, nothing has happened these past two weeks that would signal they tried again. Argent promised me he'd give me an immediate heads-up if anything happened which would indicate you'd be in any danger again. So either they found another way to get what they wanted, or they've given up."

Yeah, no. Stiles doesn't think that particular scenario sounds very realistic. At _all_ , actually. If the hunters went through this much trouble to get at him, risked being torn limb from limb by kidnapping and then torturing somebody who's not only a pack's much-treasured human, but also happens to be the son of the local sheriff, then they won't just give up.

"It's possible we're missing something here, Dad. Maybe it's not just about information and they wanted something else. Maybe I did give them what they wanted, because honestly? I don't think they'd just give up like that."

The sheriff's stills at his son's words, words which are almost identical to what Argent told him just a few days ago. _"We looked everywhere, Sheriff, and even though we found evidence that they definitely were here, those guys are now gone. Just up and left town. Almost as if they got what they wanted and got out while the going was good."_ The man's next words had chilled him. _"But keep in mind that this might not be about gathering information, and Stiles not being dead could mean they still need him for something. And it's still possible that they come back for him again."_

The sheriff's thoughts are interrupted by his son's next words.

"So, OK. We obviously don't know if I was helpful to those guys or not. Or even know what they wanted, but never mind. Not going to think about them coming back. Which brings us to the next point." He holds up four fingers. "Derek Hale. Scott told me they haven't seen him or heard from him for two weeks now. Like, right from the time I was found. But _you_ ," and he points a finger at his dad, "you just told me you have seen him, what, _three times_ these last few weeks?!"

His father nods.

"Yes. Like I told you, Stiles, I've seen Hale once over two weeks ago, which was before we found you, and twice these past two weeks. The last time was only yesterday." The sheriff frowns. "That first time was basically just a glimpse, because I saw him at the edge of the Preserve. I was going to ask him whether he'd seen you, but as soon as I stopped the car he disappeared into the tree line." He shakes his head. "I know that man is as elusive as they come and hard to get a hold of; God knows I stopped at that house often enough to find out whether he'd seen you, or knew where you were. Also because, you know ..."

Stiles glares at his father.

"You thought he might have been involved. _Jesus_ , Dad! You know by now he's not a criminal, right?!"

The sheriff actually manages to look guilty, and Stiles admits to feeling slightly vindictive and even glad at his father's obvious discomfort. OK, so the man still doesn't know about his son having this thing with the former murder suspect - and that's something Stiles counts as one of the few blessings he has - but he has been around Derek now for several months, and he should just _know_ ...

"So sue me, kid! I was pretty desperate, OK?" The man rubs his chin, eyes staring at the ground. "I didn't know whether you were dead, or whether you were busy with some of this supernatural stuff, and the fact that Hale was out there while you had disappeared just, well ... I just wanted to go over every option. And yes, that _included_ the one where Hale was involved."

Stiles huffs.

"Anyway," the sheriff smoothly continues, preemptively stopping his son from going on another verbal rampage. "I caught up with him the second time about a week later, at the gas station. He looked like death warmed over. Pale, sweaty ... just bad. When I told him we'd found you and what condition you were in, I swear he nearly fainted. Told me he was happy you were still alive, and that he'd been trying to find you as well but didn't have a clue where to start, where to look. It was pretty obvious he'd been extremely worried about you, and any thoughts I might have had..." He holds up a hand when Stiles' mouth opens, effectively shutting it with the gesture. "Any thoughts I might have _justifiably_ had regarding Hale's possible involvement in your disappearance, simply vanished."

The sheriff stares down his son, noticing how hard he has to control himself so he won't launch into another tirade.

"When I saw him yesterday at the convenience store, he just nodded at me before going out the door. Still looked like shit, I could see that much before he basically fled through the door. Anyway, whatever Scott thinks he knows - and that reminds me that I'll have to talk to that young man about withholding information - it's wrong. Hale hasn't disappeared; he's been right here."

There's a hurricane raging through Stiles' mind, torturing his already painful brain. So much of what his dad just told him just doesn't add up.

Just feels _wrong!_

Like whatever is going on with Derek, who, according to his father, might be in a seriously bad place health-wise. Derek who hasn't been seen or spoken to by Scott, and even though those two haven't turned into BFFs overnight, they _have_ been on speaking terms lately. Even managed to actually team up when combating whatever otherworldly danger threatened Beacon Hills the past year.

Derek, who hasn't come to see Stiles even _once_ these past weeks. And what the hell is up with that?!

"We need to talk to Scott, Dad. And Chris Argent, if possible. But more importantly, we need to talk to _Derek!_ "

Actually, _Stiles_ is the one who needs to talk to Derek.

Needs to see how the wolf is doing. Needs to see him and talk to him and touch him and ...

Stiles just needs Derek.

"Alright, kid. I'll set up a meeting. You just get some rest now, OK?"

Rest. Yeah, no. Stiles doesn't think he'll be able to rest, at least not until he knows what the hell is going on.

Not until he sees Derek.


End file.
